


Keys in the Icebox

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bondage, First Time, M/M, Mind Games, Self-Bondage, Topping from the Bottom, set mid-season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean spends a lot of time worrying about autoerotic asphyxiation. Almost as much time as he spends fantasizing about touching his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keys in the Icebox

 

It begins a few evenings after the argument. The one where Sam said he wouldn’t have done the same for Dean. The one that had made Dean wish for death for the first time in nearly a whole year.  

 

Dean pours himself a drink. So sue him. Whisky isn’t going to snark at him or start a fight. Whisky is always going to be his friend. It’s nearly as bad for him as Sam and some days it almost feels as good, once he gets going. Once he’s in deep enough to forget the bad shit between them. He’s going to need extra tonight.

 

They have a bona fide icebox in their kitchen, in a God honest bought and paid for fridge-freezer. Dean cracks a couple of cubes into his tumbler and curses softly when a third clatters to the floor. He stoops to retrieve it, to toss it in the sink, and his eye catches another tray of cubes shoved to the back. There’s a dark shape, like an insect, in the ice.

 

On closer inspection, there are six cubes, larger than standard, five of which are clear. The last cube has a small black metal key frozen into its centre.

 

Dean shrugs it off. Presumably Sam has his reasons. He has vague ideas about occult experiments. That would be the usual story with geek-boy and besides, Dean has other things to angst over tonight. He heads back to his room to make a start on forgetting.

 

 

****

 

Sam’s calmer, more collected than he has any right to be in the days following and Dean can’t help it, he’s impressed. Dean soothes his own inner turmoil with night time drinking.

 

During the day he picks at their damaged relationship like a scab, trying to cut Sam with pointed remarks. When that doesn’t work Dean plays dirty. He brings up childhood memories and plays on their bond, yanks on it really, anything to get through Sam’s ice barrier, trying to find the hurt that he knows must be there. But Sam won’t rise to the bait. He’s either found a better outlet than Dean’s whisky or he’s totally over it. Over them. Over Dean. It’s one of the most depressing thoughts Dean has ever had.

 

 

****

 

 

Dean shoves Crowley into to a more _comfortable_ chair and cuffs him to it. He starts to pocket the key but then tosses it to Sam instead. Let Sam listen to His Royal Whinge-Bagness. Dean needs more coffee.

 

The key turns on its keyring at the peak of the parabola between them and realisation dawns on Dean. It’s small and black and he knew he’d recognised it from somewhere. And he knows what it means.

 

Sam catches the key and pockets it with barely a glance.

 

 

****

 

 

When they’re done with Cuthbert Sinclair, and Crowley has run off with the First Blade true to form, Dean takes the first opportunity to go through the freezer. There’s nothing in the icebox but his own cubes sitting patiently in the tray, waiting for it to be late enough.

 

There is, however, an unmarked Tupperware buried beneath the frozen burgers and fish. The five plain ice cubes have gone, leaving only the one with the key frozen inside, no keyring. It’s either a duplicate or it was craftily refrozen before they left with Crowley.

 

He sets up residence in the kitchen, laptop open on the table, legs kicked out onto the opposite chair. Sam’s chair. The best seat in the house, reserved for life shattering arguments.

 

Sam makes an appearance at nine thirty. He gets himself a glass of water and a snack from the cupboard. He glances from the freezer to Dean and back again a grand total of three times but Dean doesn’t think that Sam notices him watching. Then Sam mutters, “’Night,” and shuffles out.

 

Dean doesn’t get around to drinking that night. He intends to but it turns out that he’s found a new distraction. See, Dean knows a thing or two about sex. He made it his mission in life in his teens and early twenties, before other missions like the Apocalypse got in the way. He knows that handcuff keys in ice mean self-restraint. You keep the key within reach but you have to wait for the ice to melt. Hell, he’s considered it himself.

 

Plenty of hook-ups have seen Dean tied up, usually with sweet smelling satin scarves. Once it had been a guy and he’d used their neckties, one for each wrist, but that’s the point. Dean has only ever been tied _by the wrists_ and never once has he been in a position he couldn’t escape from in less than ten seconds flat. Fifteen tops.

 

But real bondage? It had actually been the occasions on which Dean himself had done the tying-up when he had learned the most. His partners really had been helpless then, if blissfully unaware of Dean’s prowess with knots and restraints. He had tried to give them what they wanted, coaxed out their pleasure and watched them struggle, careful to ensure that freedom was the last thing they really wanted. He had been good at it, thrilled at having learned a way to deliver even more pleasure than usual, even if they were only one night stands. Maybe one in five hook-ups had gone that way in his early twenties.

 

In the early hours Dean gives up the pretence of researching Sam’s deviance and frees himself from his jeans. The movie clips he finds to beat off to bring it all back, the way the sex noises are more real, less voluntary. The same is true of the actors’ expressions, even in high-artifice porn. Even the orgasms are more impressive, possibly because they are harder earned. He remembers how his hook-ups had been that extra bit dishevelled afterwards, and that look of almost-awe he had occasionally earned.

 

And it had all been harmless child’s play until Alistair had taught him to be an accomplished sadist in Hell. And yes, Dean was gifted indeed. There were souls in Hell that would forever be enamoured of Dean, tortured until they were broken and twisted to Dean’s will, only to be abandoned, left begging for more. Let’s not forget Hell.

 

The more aroused Dean becomes, the darker his jerk off materiel gets, the porn working faster for him than his usual vanilla fantasies. At first he sticks with forced orgasms and stays away from the pain and humiliation stuff. It’s the added level of realism that tempts him to delve deeper, he thinks. There’s no need to fake a cry when someone slaps your ass with a ruler hard enough to leave a welt.

 

The closer he lets himself edge towards his own climax the more he indulges. He holds back from coming, a part of his mind still cold and objective, interested in where his desires will lead. It has been a long time since Dean has thought of this kind of sex. Hell will do that to a man.

 

Before he had become Hell’s Torturer, Dean had been on the receiving end. He had been on the receiving end until he had broken, and he had broken because he knew what it was to _want_ to break. 

 

Dean knew that there was a whole other dimension of sex here that he had barely tapped. Hell had just been the Winchester equivalent of _life getting in the way_.

 

Sam on the other hand… apparently Sam has gone there, albeit alone.

 

So real bondage? Yeah, Dean can see the appeal. He comes unexpectedly, right along with the tall muscular Sam-lookalike onscreen, the latter crying out pleasure into Dean’s headphones for the both of them.

 

 

****

 

 

There are no marks on Sam’s wrists, Dean checks. There might be a lingering redness but that might be Dean’s imagination. It plays on his mind while they’re talking, while they’re eating. Does Sam get off? Does he use a blindfold? Earplugs? Does he use rope on his legs? On his cock?

 

While Sam’s out, running an errand for books that might contain information about the Mark of Cain that just isn’t widely available on the Net, or even in their extensive Men of Letters Library, Dean goes through his room.

 

He finds lube in the cabinet next to Sam’s bed and his mind is overwhelmed with images of Sam inserting any number of things in his ass. At least, Dean assumes that’s what it means. Sam’s uncut, they both are, but Dean doesn’t find any plugs or toys.

 

There’s no sign of the demon-proof handcuffs either, which probably means that Sam keeps his stash elsewhere, hidden from prying eyes. A show of mistrust that is absolutely justified.

 

There is a blindfold. It’s in the desk drawer. It’s black, satin, expensive looking. It could be explained away as a sleep-aid, the desire for full darkness, but Sam never needed full darkness to sleep, never even wanted it. Neither of them are the kind of guys who use American Psycho-style moisturisers or black satin sleep aids.

 

 

****

 

 

Dean spends a lot of time worrying about autoerotic asphyxiation. Almost as much time as he spends fantasizing about touching his brother.

 

 

****

 

 

When he can no longer bear the sight of his bedroom wall and the not-knowing, Dean slinks into the kitchen. It’s just after ten on a Thursday evening. He checks the freezer, trying for stealth and grimacing at the noise of grinding ice. The key is missing.

 

He hears Sam’s shallow breathing through his bedroom door and Dean’s mind relaxes, even as his pulse rate picks up and arousal threatens to choke him. Sammy’s safe.

 

Dean tells himself that he’s just making sure that Sam doesn’t strangle himself by accident. It’s taking creepy invasiveness to a whole new level, which is really saying something between the two of them, but Dean could no more tear himself away from the cool wood of Sam’s door than he could sever a limb.

 

He listens in the corridor outside Sam’s room in bare feet, boxer shorts and t-shirt for four days, freezing his ass off and so hard that his balls ache. He never touches himself until he hears the telltale clink of cuffs being removed, at which point he hightails it to his room. He invariably comes with a mouthful of forearm and a frightening intensity.

 

 

****

 

 

On the fifth day he hears his name.

 

It’s so soft that Dean thinks he’s imagined it, until Sam says it again, minutes later. Dean is so confused. He stands there frozen and helpless, and when he hears the key clicking in the lock he stumbles away to lie in his room, too scared to touch himself, too hard to sleep, trembling with guilt and something that doesn’t quite dare to be hope.

 

 

****

 

 

Sam doesn’t act any differently the next morning, still cool towards Dean and focussed on the task in hand. He doesn’t seem to notice a change in Dean’s behaviour either, although Dean’s sure that the chaos of his thoughts must be spilling over. He feels rattled to his very core. 

 

All day he tells himself that he will back off and leave Sam to it. There’s no evidence to suggest that Sam’s even putting himself in danger and every reason to damn Dean right back to Hell for being one sick fuck.

 

Ten o’clock finds him outside Sam’s door again though, ear pressed to wood to catch every hitch of Sam’s breath, straining for the sound of his own name. It comes fifteen minutes later, repeated every few minutes. Could it be louder than yesterday? Sam isn’t accusing him of listening, he’s _moaning_ Dean’s name. Sam is fantasizing about Dean.

 

Dean’s so happy he wants to cry. He’s walking on sunshine for the whole next day.

 

 

****

 

 

“Dean!”

 

Jesus, but Sam’s getting loud. Doesn’t he realise how loud he’s being? If Dean had been in the kitchen he would have heard that. Maybe he wouldn’t have heard from his own room but Sam must know that it’s risky. Perhaps that’s what makes it good for him. Is Sam in there fantasizing about getting caught by Dean? Dean thinks that he probably is. He would be, if their roles were reversed.

 

“DEAN!”

 

Dean leaps away from the door as though he has been zapped by high voltage. He would have heard that one from his room. Does Sam know he’s here? He stands frozen in indecision trying to think. Everything is off-kilter again.

 

It’s the invitation he’s wanted from the start, consciously made or not. If Dean had been unaware of Sam’s nightly… activities, he would still have come running at a shout like that.

 

There’s no way of knowing what he’s going to find because all he has heard, all the times he has listened, are clinks and rustles and Sam’s ragged breath. He opens the door quietly, heart hammering . _Sam,_ he’s going to ask, _Is everything okay?_ But the words die on his tongue when he’s blasted with the smell of sweat and sex and _Sam_.

 

Sam doesn’t know that he’s there. He has the blindfold on, along with a pair of noise cancelling headphones, which could explain why his volume is getting out of control, and he doesn’t so much as twitch in Dean’s direction. There’s a heavy iron collar around his neck that Dean can’t tear his eyes from. Well, that and his straining cock, his straining _body_ , but the collar is terrifying somehow. It’s like something out of the Dark Ages. It’s like something out of Hell. Sam is pulling against it, neck cording, face so pink it’s bordering on red. Dean was right to worry.

 

His legs are spread and roped to the foot of the bed and… Oh God. There’s a wire leading up between Sam’s thighs. It’s attached to a small remote control and there’s a regular pulsing buzz that Dean couldn’t hear from outside. Dean’s cock throbs in time.

 

Sam’s arms are up above his head, bound together and barely an inch away from the key which is lying free on a saucer in a small pool of water. There are rags carefully wrapped inside the cuffs to prevent damage to his skin, and now that Dean looks more closely there’s also a lining inside the collar, thank God.

 

“Dean!” Sam sobs again, voice horse from the collar. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. Dean is drawn closer by no conscious will of his own.

 

Sam grunts and strains against his bonds and comes silently, lips parted. Streaks and streaks of come rushing up his belly, his chest, and it keeps coming until Dean starts to feel inadequate. He backs away and closes the door softly, the glorious image of Sam’s orgasm forever burned onto his retinas.

 

 

****

 

 

It has become a routine: Listen for Sam in the kitchen retrieving the key at 9.30pm like clockwork; Allow fifteen minutes (Dean has a better idea of the complexity of restraints after last night but he’s not sure whether Sam takes his sweet time setting up); sneak to the kitchen to check that they key is gone (he doesn’t wear his robe in case he’s caught – it would be more incriminating somehow: make it look like he _planned_ to stand in a freezing corridor for an hour and besides, he’d be even more of a dirty old man wearing it)…

 

…and that’s as far as Dean gets with tonight’s routine because the key is still there, in the Tupperware in the freezer. _Huh. Guess Sam’s not in the mood_.

 

Dean tells himself that it’s relief but it’s definitely disappointment that washes over him. Dean though, Dean’s a pro at quashing feelings of disappointment. He fetches a tumbler and slides open the icebox. There’s another key.

 

It’s modern, shiny silver metal with a black plastic top, and it’s just sitting there glaring at him in plain sight. There’s no ice around it and the feeling in his gut is no longer disappointment. The key has been left there for Dean. Shit.

 

Dean’s hand is out, reaching for the key, when his instincts kick in. He has to be careful. Sam’s playing some kind of game and Dean needs to be one hundred percent certain in this. His heart is riding very fragile glass.

 

He fetches his phone from his bedroom, pausing outside Sam’s room but there’s only a faint tapping of keys from inside. Researching then. He snaps a photo of the key so that the markings are clear and retreats to do some research of his own.

 

 

****

 

 

It’s a chastity device for men. Woah. This is something that Dean doesn’t know about because, let’s be honest, Dean’s not really one for denying himself pleasure. He looks into it though, reads descriptions of how it feels. He imagines Sam in one trying to get hard, and comes.

 

The orgasm leaves Dean feeling hollow and emotionally vulnerable, which he hates. He needs to talk to Sam. The key must have been left there for Dean, it’s unavoidable, but all the bad blood between them recently has been about Sam trying to wrestle control _away_ from Dean. He’s so confused. Sam must have known he was there, he must have rigged his door to know that it had been opened, it’s what Dean would have done. Did he know that Dean had been listening all those other times? It was so hard to think clearly.

 

Sam’s asking a lot of Dean here. He knows what he did in Hell, maybe not in detail but that makes it even worse in a way. Will he expect pain? It’s likely, given their history.

 

Sam’s hurting from the fallout of angel violation and Dean’s betrayal. He lashed out at Dean with the assertion that they can’t be brothers anymore. Maybe this is Sam’s way of punishing himself? Or maybe he’s just freeing himself from having to think at all.

 

Dean thinks it’s a fantasy of self destruction at its core. Sam can’t trust anyone else and he’s clearly desperate for the bondage, going to great lengths to do it himself. Sam thinks Dean can do a better job of destroying him than he can do for himself, which… yeah. Fair point. Is that irony? Sam wants Dean to destroy him, just a little, every night and despite himself Dean feels a shiver of fresh desire.

 

But Sam just wants to use him. It might even be Dean’s penance for the angel possession thing, and Dean doesn’t want that. He wants to kiss Sam. He wants to explore his body _tenderly_ and with _reciprocation_. He’s never going to admit to the gentle affection he feels out loud but that’s exactly what it is. He loves Sam. He wants to be allowed to love him physically and be loved in return.

 

 _And that,_ he tells himself, _is enough whisky_. So he caps the bottle.

 

Enough games. They’ll talk in the morning. Hell, Dean will confess if he has to. He turns everything off, lies in the dark and tells himself that Sam is safe, that they’ll figure this out, but sleep won’t come and he hates it when he can’t sleep.

 

Abadon’s files are still scattered all over the tables and the coffee’s good. She’s one dead demon-bitch when Dean gets his Blade back.

 

 

****

 

 

He can’t even look Sam in the eye in the morning. All the plans to confront him go out the window as soon as Sam starts talking about a new case. And Sam’s really playing it up. He’s all, “Are you okay Dean?” and “You’ve been acting obsessed.”

 

 _Well duh_ , Dean wants to say, but that would involve looking at Sam’s face for more than a second and he doesn’t trust himself to keep his eyes from Sam’s crotch because, _Is he wearing one of those devices?_

 

 

****

 

 

Dean goes to a bar only to be pestered by Crowley. Every time his phone rings Dean wonders, _Is Sam wearing it?_

 

 

****

 

 

They really do need to find Abadon. When Sam gets back they work on it until Dean’s losing his mind and can’t even see what’s in front of him, which is only about forty minutes actually but he’s tired damnit, and the object of almost twenty years lusting is doing a royal job of mind-fucking him from the next table.

 

It’s time for Dean to man-up.

 

“I think there’s something I want from the kitchen,” he says. Sam’s looking at him, waiting for him to go on, so he clears his throat and adds, “Something from the icebox.”

 

Sam’s expression softens, “Yeah Dean?” he asks, eyes taking on a definite bedroom-look that speaks directly to Dean’s libido. “You going to unlock me?”

 

Jesus Christ, Sam is wearing it. Dean needs that key.

 

 

****

 

 

Sam is vulnerable suddenly, when they get to his room. “Dean I want…” he bites his lips together, “I _need_ … the reason I wanted you to have the key…”

 

“It’s okay Sammy, I get it.” Dean isn’t sure that he totally gets it but he’s sure that he knows what Sam wants from him right now, and that’s enough. “So, how are we going to do this?”

 

Sam shows him how it’s done. He has always been on his back before, how Dean found him, because it had been easier, being alone. They keep to that set-up but Dean makes some adjustments, raising Sam’s knees and refusing to use the collar. He tells Sam that it worries him. _Because I’m worried I’ll like it too much_ , he doesn’t add.

 

They ditch the headphones too. Dean’s pretty sure a good portion of his sexual prowess is thanks to the litany of filth he can generate. They keep the blindfold.

 

He starts slow, soothing and stroking Sam’s chest, face, tugging his earlobes and running knuckles over his neck. He toys with his nipples and runs his fingers over his thighs (and the soles of his feet because there are some obligatory duties an older brother has when presented with a plateau such as this).

 

The little plastic cage thing rises and falls with Sam’s arousal. After the forth time, Dean takes pity on him and removes the tiny padlock. Sam’s cock chubs up nicely. There was a lot of cock shoved into a small space. Dean’s impressed all over again and he tells Sam about it. He tells him how sexy he looks, how good Dean’s going to make it for him, and he breathes in the scent of Sam’s arousal when his cock reaches full hardness. Dean plans to add taste to the feast of senses too, but not yet.

 

Sam’s cock and balls are gorgeous in his hands. He takes his time learning them, and the first time he brings Sam to the edge it’s almost incidental. Sam’s choked, “ _Oh_ ,” of disappointment when he stops is music to Dean’s ears.

 

He thinks that there are toys in Sam’s stash of sex things: the little remote control egg vibrator, maybe other things, but Dean doesn’t want them. He wants to use his hands, just his hands, just his fingers, to take Sam apart.

 

Sam is strong and beautiful, dangerous and deadly. Having him under Dean’s hands this way gives him a sense of power like nothing he’s ever felt. But no, scratch that. He _has_ felt this way, and very recently. It’s like wielding the First Blade. Sam is giving him an alternate addiction. If Sam had died then wreaking vengeance with the Mark and the Blade… yeah. Dean would be totally gone on that. There was crazy power and bloodlust and Crowley was right about the addictiveness, but while Sam’s alive and kicking? There’s nothing that could ever compete with this. Dean is all-powerful and there’s… well, not exactly _blood_ lust (although Dean will want to keep a handle on that because he developed some dark tastes in Hell and he’s pretty sure Sam’s kinks don’t extend to disembowelment) but certainly lust, in buckets. Nothing can top this.

 

And maybe Sam knows it. Is that what this is about? Maybe this isn’t just about Sam’s needs afterall. 

 

When Dean makes it obvious that he’s going to go down on Sam, Sam kind of goes crazy saying, “Off, off, take it off,” pulling frantically at the restraints, twisting and trying to dislodge the blindfold as Dean licks a stripe up the underside of his cock. “Please Dean, _please_. C’mon, wanna see you, take it _off_.”

 

It makes Dean wonder how long Sam’s wanted to see Dean sucking his cock.

 

It’s so easy to tease Sam with his mouth, alternately swallowing him down and rubbing with his tongue. He makes it nice and wet, drool escaping at the corners, running down his chin, knowing that Sam’s eyes with their wide blown pupils are now catching every detail. He keeps pulling Sam to the edge, feeling the thrum of blood rushing past his lips, only to back off, never letting him quite get there. It’s awesome.

 

When Sam’s growls of frustration have completely given way to whines, and Dean’s jaw is aching, he goes to the drawer where he found the lube. Sam sucks in a gasp and his cock leaps and twitches against his belly, but he must have expected this. Maybe he thinks Dean wants to fuck him. And Dean does, he really really does, but he’s not going to. Not today.

 

He slicks up his fingers and teases Sam’s hole, suckling again on the head of his cock because you just can’t get enough of some things. Sam whimpers. It’s delightful. He’s tight and hot and Dean takes his time, sliding in a second finger long after it would have fit. He finds Sam’s prostate and pushes, rubs, prods, milking Sam’s cock with his mouth. He’s had enough of teasing. He wants to taste Sam’s come, wants a huge load, like the one he witnessed, filling his mouth.

 

Sam shouts when he comes, bucking and straining, but Dean doesn’t lose a drop. He follows Sam’s body with his mouth and hands, both soothing and coaxing out every last spasm, swallowing it all down, bitter-sweet salty perfection.

 

Finally he has to look up. He doesn’t want to. He wants to lie here with his head resting on Sam’s thigh forever but he can feel Sam’s eyes on him.

 

“Do you…?” Dean gestures from the chastity cage to Sam’s softening cock, still glistening from the mix of spit and come. He’s starting to feel awkward.

 

Sam shakes his head, no. He looks rumpled and debauched, and more lovely than anything in the whole world to Dean. “It’s more symbolic. Kind of a metaphor,” he says, smiling lazily.

 

 _Ah_. Dean’s going to have to think about that later.

 

“Not that we can’t play with it sometimes,” he smirks.

 

God. It’s not even possible for Dean to be any more aroused.

 

 

****

 

 

They get Sam free. He’s all happy and loose, wide smiles and loveliness. Dean feels awkward though, jittery with arousal and unsure. Dean hasn’t come and Sam isn’t offering. Does Sam even want normal intimacy with him? Is he only being used for this?

 

He turns to leave but Sam says, “Dean, _Dean_ , stay.”

 

They lie in Sam’s bed, chest to back, Dean’s the little spoon. He’s _still_ hard because he just had an erotic overhaul of his life, and Sam _still_ isn’t offering.

 

And that’s when Dean has an epiphany, lying caged in Sam’s giant arms. He realizes that _he_ is the one who is trapped and bound here, tighter than physical bondage could ever be. Sam has him by the heart, by the throat, and now Sam has him by the balls too. This new turn of events is like locking a chastity device _on Dean_ because he doubts he could get it up for anyone else now.

 

So this thing, whatever it is, it’s going to be whatever Sam wants it to be. Sam’s calling the shots now. Sam has decided what he wants, and that’s okay. It’s more than okay actually. Freedom is the very last thing on Dean’s mind. Dean was broken to Sam’s will a long long time ago.

 

His body takes the cue from his mind, going heavy-limbed and languid, and Dean submits, to Sam and to sleep.

 

 

 


End file.
